


can't maintain

by Tridraconeus



Series: can't maintain [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amputation, Drugs, Gen, Spoilers, mute corvo, nothing is good and no one is happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 15:07:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11443422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tridraconeus/pseuds/Tridraconeus
Summary: They took his tongue in Coldridge. He saw it lie pink and red and useless on the ground, and what he has left makes speaking entirely distasteful. His heart has always belonged wholly to Jessamine. The Loyalists tried to take his life. Now, Daud wants to take his hand; will there be any of him left?





	can't maintain

**Author's Note:**

> [hey what the hell, arkane, i want this.](http://carvedwhalebones.tumblr.com/post/90651491894/noticed-while-looking-through-the-translation) title comes from the ajj album can't maintain.

“I recognize that Mark on your hand.” Daud looks him over, eyes just as cold as they were on that day when he—

Corvo's vision swims again and he bares his teeth regardless, lurching against the metal holding him. He doesn't manage to do anything except wrench his shoulder and move himself into an even more uncomfortable position. Samuel's eyes had been soft and creased with pity when he loaded Corvo's lax body onto the boat; Daud's men inscrutable, as always, if not self-assured and cooly dismissive. Now, he's here, well-trapped and raging as well as he can and Daud isn't showing much emotion at all. 

“Take him out and lay him on the floor. Back down, and arms out. Don't let him get leverage.” Daud's hand goes to his blade. That should have been Corvo's warning; the poison fuzzes his mind enough that the alarm bells are too slow to ring, and by the time he writhes hands grasp him, firm and supportive, and his vision jolts and fades out. When he opens his eyes again and comes back to the world he's lying in the prone, helpless position that Daud described. He squirms uselessly. Daud doesn't even think it necessary to try and stop him. 

Corvo's face prickles in shameful heat. He hadn't had the opportunity to put his mask on, had been smart enough to just tuck it in his pocket before he passed out onto his bed. He misses the anonymity. He misses the shield between his roiling emotions and the world. Daud's going to kill him, slit his neck like a sick hound or gut him like a hagfish. It's not the end he imagined for himself.

“You have no use for that hand, anymore.” Daud's voice stays low and matter-of-fact but Corvo ventures to hear scorn. Even then, he doesn't quite absorb the gravity of the situation until Daud's blade rests on his wrist and the man puts a foot on his arm. He waits, too, for Corvo to catch up with him. 

When he does, he trembles and cries, bile rising slick and thick in his throat. Daud's boot shifts, settles on his elbow and the man kneels properly to hold him just below the wrist. Corvo mouths a curse. A plea? He can't tell, and the wail that rips itself from his throat is neither. 

“Settle, bodyguard. The blade is sharp. You won't feel it much.” Daud doesn't mutter. His voice rings clear in the hollow maw of the refinery, and Corvo's own answering snarl seems to be drowned out. He feels hands on him, again; on his shoulders, on his ankles, points of firm contact keeping him from thrashing.  _The blade is sharp_. Was that supposed to be reassuring? Corvo sucks in air, on the edge of hysterical.

They took his tongue in Coldridge. He saw it lie pink and red and useless on the ground, and what he has left makes speaking entirely distasteful. His heart has always belonged wholly to Jessamine. The Loyalists tried to take his _life_. Now, Daud wants to take his hand; will there be any of him left?

The blade comes down in a swift, ruthless movement. Corvo sees it out of the corner of his eye. There's an awful, gaping second of nothing; and then pain. Someone's screaming. It's a hoarse and terrible sound and when it doesn't stop he realizes that it's coming from him. His screams echo in the refinery atrium, ringing all the way down to the ankle-deep water far below. Daud clicks his tongue and wipes his blade on his jacket, sheathes it, and finally steps off of Corvo. 

Everything about him feels _wet_ , the slick slide of blood from his wrist and hot, hot tears. Blood on his teeth, from his bitten lip. Spit, welling up and slicking his bottom lip and his chin as he screams. 

Daud speaks over him, still calm. “See that this is cauterized.”

There's a rustle, a murmur of acknowledgement from a black shadow next to him. 

“Properly, mind you.” 

There's a ripple of huffed chuckles around him, and Corvo thrashes and screams. He can't do anything. It hurts, so much, like he's tearing his stomach out from his throat, and his head lolls so he has to look at his bleeding stump. He hasn't been this loud since the first days in Coldridge, when the wound was fresh.

By the Void, it seems that everything he's gone through so far seems perfectly tailored to rip at the scabs, like he's not allowed to heal. 

“Put him to sleep and move him to the warehouse across the street. Leave guards and report to me when you are done.” 

The hand, his gear; Daud tosses it all brusquely over the railing and to the murky water below. Corvo wails a protest when he hears the tell-tale splash, and then louder when Daud melts away. A Whaler leans over him, glassy green lenses meeting his eyes, and Corvo feels a sharp prick at his neck. 

He passes out, and welcomes it.

*

“Here you are at last.” It's the Outsider, and Corvo reluctantly opens his eyes to the Void. His entire body sings in a tingling numbness, small mercies that the Outsider has provided while Corvo is a guest in his domain. He spends so long enjoying the painless buzz that he misses out on nearly everything that the Outsider says, focusing in on certain words— _your missing hand, awaken and go find it, you’ll need it_ — that he could have guessed for himself.

“You've been here quite a while, Corvo.” The Outsider's voice-- young-sounding, a foreign drawl, a plodding cadence that Corvo can swear he's heard before, smooths over his panic and calms him enough that he can listen. The void swirls behind him. Around him. The mournful song of a whale echoes through the dark expanse, and Corvo swears it rises and falls with the unnaturally slow beating of his heart. The Outsider spreads his arms, palms up, and moves his hands in blunted curlicues as he gestures. “I recommend you wake up before you forget how to.”

The Outsider crosses his arms, shakes his head. As he fades back into the Void ambiance there's a twist of concern, disappointment on his cracked lips. 

Corvo abruptly comes to at the bottom of a pit with a Whaler sliding a rotted pallet over the opening. A rat sniffs at his-- at his stump, wrapped securely and aching. His vision still swims and he feels like death.

He sits up. Orients himself. There's bricks down in the cell with him. 

He picks one up in his right hand. Throws. 


End file.
